I asked for further details.  Kishimoto San said the young man was a minor officer on the steamer by which his granddaughter and her mother had crossed the Pacific.  He thought he was an American.  Whenever the ship coaled in a nearby port, the young chap communicated with the girl and together they walked and talked.

The plain facts after all sounded harmless and innocent.  What more natural than for a lonely girl to seek for pastime the company of a youth of her own kind?  But it could not be—­not in Japan; though as innocent as two baby kittens playing on the green, it would bring shame upon the girl and the family, which no deed of heroism would ever erase from local history.  Something must be done; I asked Kishimoto San how I could be of assistance.

“I have been consulting with myself,” he replied in English.  “Would you grant me permission to send her to you daily as a student?  Besides her strange ways, she talks in strange English.  I cannot find the same in any conversation book.  Her whole being has need of reconstruction.”

I was not in the reconstructing business, but a young girl in the house meant youth and diversion and a private pupil meant extra pay.  What a little extra money wouldn’t do in my house wasn’t worth adding up.  In thought I repaired the roof and bought new legs for the kitchen stove.

My visitor, mistaking my silence for hesitation, suggested, “First come and see her.  Analyze her conduct and grant me decision whether she is a natural, free-born American citizen, as she boasts, or if the gods have cursed her with a bold spirit.  She is of your country, your religion, if any, and perhaps you can understand her.  I fail to comprehend.”

He folded his arms for emphasis.  The gleam of the western sun caught the sheen of his silk kimono and covered him with a glow.  From under bent brows he gazed at the scene before him.

Earth and sky and sea breathed beauty.  The evening song of the birds was of love.  The spirit of the fading day whispered peace, but unheeding he sat in troubled silence.  Then from the street far below came the shout of a boy at play.  It was a voice full of the gladness of youth.  In it was a challenge of daring and courage.  Loudly he called to his troop of play soldiers to charge splendidly, to fight with the glorious Yamato Damashi (spirit of Japan).

Kishimoto San heard and with a quick movement raised his head as though he had felt a blow.  “Ah,” he murmured to himself, “if it had only been a boy!”

There was the secret wound that was ever sore and bleeding.  There was no son to perpetuate the name.  His most vital hope was dead, his greatest desire crushed, and by a creature out of the West, who not only stole his daughter but fathered this girl whom no true Japanese would want as a wife.  To a man of Kishimoto San’s traditions the hurt was deep and cruel.